Page 30 of Nemesync
I love killing for her. I love every ounce of pain delivered for her, and every drop of blood spilled in her name.
His agonized whimpering fills the gloomy room as I lean in, my face mere inches from his bloody one. Still smiling, I appreciate the sinister canvas before me. The fucking monster within screams for more, urging me to utterly destroy this asshole of a man. I need to make him disappear for what he did tonight.
Zanae is mine to claim, mine to own, mine to end. She’s fucking mine to agonize over.
“You thought you could touch what’s mine, Zaidan, without any repercussions? So fucking stupid, aren’t you? Now you’ll have to shut the fuck up and take it like a real man.”
I may have to make more examples to let people understand that I’m not someone you can piss off or mess with that easily. Let’s keep my reputation as high as this stupid nickname,Dyavol.
“You had the audacity to make her uncomfortable? Zaidan, Zaidan, Zaidan...You forgot about that ugly scar on your neck? I thought you’d learn your lesson back there,” I laugh and shake my head, “But I guess you didn’t.”
He looks at me with pleading eyes, as if hoping to dissuade me from something I might regret. But that’s the thing – I don’tfeel regrets. “Dyavol, I was just playing, there’s no need to do this. I didn’t even touch her.”
I meet his gaze, his face beaten up, blood everywhere, and I smile. “You proposed to her, you kissed her hand, you touched her arm and thigh, and you looked at me while whispering God knows what, big guy. You knew damn well what you were doing.”
The images of her face when he touched her flooded my mind, how her shoulders tensed, and her breath quickened. I lose it all over again, “Don’t you think you messed up here, Zaidan? This time, I’m going to give you a scar on your damn dick.”
He shakes his head frenetically. “No, you don’t understand. I was just playing, and she looked good. I just forgot... She’s just a good piece of meat. But she’s yours if you want.”
As if I was waiting for his approbation to make Zanae Dellé mine…Stupid bastard.
I paid little attention to his words, too absorbed in selecting my instruments with precision to extract the maximum amount of pain from him.
What can I say? Torture is an art not many can master. It’s not just about making the person suffer and ending it; it’s about drawing it out long enough to see the fear in their eyes, to revel in the power of holding their life in your hands.
And when the person deserves it, like this fucker does, things become even more interesting.
The metallic smell of blood fills the room as I carve a horrific threat on his dying flesh.
Am I like a messed-up poet? Because fuck it’s almost artistic.
I pause, enjoying the moment, and with a smile still etched on my face, I lean in to speak again.
“You see, this pain is just a glimpse of that fucking insanity that consumes me when she’s threatened, or when she’s uncomfortable because of someone. I know you weren’t here todo her any favor, Zaidan. Who put you up to marrying her? Her father? I know there’s more to the story, but I don’t really give a fuck about the ‘why’ and the ‘how’. What I do know is that you did have fun flirting with her even if she didn’t want to reciprocate. And I want you to remember it where you’re burning in hell for all the things you did here and wait for me there.”
Our little friend here isn’t a saint. I know plenty of stories about him – rape, betrayal – everything as despicable as he is.
I don’t have any boundaries when it comes to torture. In fact, I’m always trying new, creative methods.
But abusing a woman is something that will never sit right with me. And for that, I couldn’t care less about creativity. I just wanted to inflict on him more pain, more distress, a slow little death.
Maybe it’s because of that shit called PTSD?
Maybe it’s because of those fucking pictures.
I can’t breathe anymore.
Why is my heart beating so fast? Why is my vision so blurry?
Am I allowing those memories to resurface again? I can’t fucking do that.
Fucking hell.
Fingers marked around her throat, laying naked on the ground. Bruised and dead. Cold and empty.Lifeless.
1-2-3.
I look at my fingers, counting slowly to anchor myself to the moment, each number pulling me deeper into my own darkness. And I love it.
